In Other News ...

I've heard that Pakistan is experiencing devastating flooding.

And, is it possible that more troops were killed in Afghanistan over the weekend? God I hope not.

I also believe someone mentioned that we're in for another slump in the housing market; wait? did the first one actually end?

Don't ask me. This past week, I've had a BIG old case of "the-world-revolves-around -me - head-in-the-sand-itis"

It's probably just me, but when receiving chemotherapy treatment, there are times when the only thing you can think about is yourself and the way you feel.

Definitely a bad strategy, because listen to me sister, you prolly ain't feeling so good.

So why dwell on it?

In my case, it's about all my damn feeble mind can do to think about the fact that food doesn't taste at all like it should and my beloved coffee stinks like something from the gutter; and don't you come near me with those cookies mister. And especially not that glass of wine.

But good Lord. I am hungry. So hungry. Let me just try some of that whatever it is. Maybe if I can just catch a satisfying taste of something, my stomach will feel satisfied and stop it's funky growling-nausea dance. No matter if it makes my mouth feel like I just swabbed an open sore with fresh squeezed lemon juice. I'll keep trying with the food until I get it right.

I shouldn't underestimate my my mental capabilities so much. There are other things I do think about. Like how cold it is on sixty-degree August night when you have very little hair on your head. I'm sure I probably look very sexy sleeping in a knit hat.

And I do spend an awful lot of time pondering the wonderment of my bowels. What on earth are they doing with all that food I'm ingesting? What exactly dear bowels, would be the precise combination of Colace and Milk of Magnesia to get things, ahem, moving? Without mimicking that torrential flooding in Pakistan, that is. Any indication at all, would be appreciated.

Then there is that wound on my right hand that causes nurses and oncologists alike to exclaim "ewww" when looking at it. What kind of comfort am I supposed to derive from the squeamish look that appears on their faces? You've determined it's only a spider bite - so suck it up. It's not that bad.

Yes, I spent way to much time over the weekend dwelling in my woes that really and truly aren't all that bad. It's just when you feel kind of sick and your energy is lower than a slug's ass, it's real easy to get all wrapped up in your own little pity party.

Thankfully, as silently as the insidious side effects begin to reappear, so they begin to disappear.

One morning, about a week after the infusion, you wake up to find the enemy has retreated ever so slightly. You notice that foods taste a little more like they should. That climb upstairs to your bedroom after your morning shower? It isn't like scaling K2 after all.

Then, even though you never really forgot, you remember all the amazing, helpful, kind and loving people in your life; surrounding you, banning together to hold that safety net beneath you. You revel in the joy and gratitude of receiving their cards in the mail and the delicious meals that have kept your family supped whilst you lift nary a finger.

And you remember, ever so thankfully, that not one of your loved ones is overseas fighting in a different, more ridiculous kind of war in which their survival is in jeopardy daily.

You remember too, that unlike so many others, you have a safe, warm home in which to sleep while wearing that "all gangsta" pink and white hat that grandma knit for the homeless.

And best of all, your children and their lives come back into focus. You notice all the great jokes they've told over the last week and how one of them sat in bed with you and played Gin Rummy until all hours.

Finally, you realize how patient they've been waiting for you to remember that sometimes the world actually does revolve around them and the very real fact that they are about to embark upon their own amazing milestones. In just a few short days, you consciously acknowledge (just in the nick of time I might add), that school will be starting and one will be a Senior while the other begins her first year in middle school.

Inevitably, gratefully, the focus will shift to other news.

Going, Going ... Not Quite Gone

I thought by now, I'd be able to write a "Who Loves Ya, Baby" post and pass out Tootsie Pops to honor the occasion of my impersonation of Kojak. Nope, not yet. I'm a little premature, turns out this hair loss process is a lot slower than I thought.

Though I've shed clumps upon copious clumps of hair, I'm still not bald. Make no mistake, things are thin up top; so much so, my shadow looks different.

But like the oil spill in the gulf, the hair just keeps coming out with no end in sight. And like the oil, I had no idea there was so of it! (Note to self: add "good hair" to gratitude list).

I guess I'm in transition. As my niece so wisely pointed out - "hair in transition is never a good thing." She is right, right, right about that; so these days, you'll find me sporting a couple of chic little hats I picked up at where else? Target.

Update: Above entry was written 3 weeks ago, when the oil in the gulf was still flowing and the plug theories seemed to be a joke. The following is from my thoughts today, August 22nd; a few things have changed:

For the past few weeks I've been watching the natural part-line in my hair grow wider and wider. I think it's measuring at about an inch wide; almost qualifying me to join the "comb-over" club. Anybody got some Brill Cream they can loan me?

Strangely, the length on the sides is about the same as it was before the hair loss began: below the ears. Thin, very thin, but still on the long-ish side. Pair that with my pale skin and I've got a look that has "cancer poster child" written all over it.

Yesterday afternoon, I decided it was time to take charge of the situation and tell Chemotherapy who is in charge here. "Buzz cut for Bon," says I.

Mr. Bon promptly retrieved the clippers from the linen closet. Yeah, we're cool like that - we definitely have the same kind of electric shears they use at Rudy's. We even have the sweet smock to keep the hair from getting all up in your clothes.

Then it was time to decide the length. Were we going drastic and cut with the #1 fence attached - or keep it on the longer (it's all relative) side, with the #4 fence in place?

In the end, conservatism won out and I chose a #4. With our daughter right by his side helping with clean-up, Mr. Bon shaved me right down to an almost stylish nappy little cut. It feels great; I can hardly keep my hands from touching it. And, it doesn't look too bad either.

Surprisingly, I look about 46 years younger. No kidding. As my family will confirm, when I was a wee pup, my short, blond toddler hair stood straight up on end. Even though it is very, very short today, you can see that tendency is still there. And somehow my brown hair has given way to blond roots. I mean, I think those roots are blond. Surely, they're not gray ... right?

Now for the cute part. Did I ever mention to you that I'm actually married to a Saint? I only call him Mr. Bon here because he is so humble. Trust me, his real name is Saint Jim. I'll explain the reasons why later. Yesterday was just another demonstration of the countless acts of kindness, love, support and sweetness he has shown me in our 28 years together.

As soon as I stepped out of our makeshift barber's chair, in hops my man! "Number Four" says he. So daughter and I commenced the shaving ... right down to the wee bits. And of course, he looks freaking cute in his #4. What a man ... getting the buzz cut whilst in the midst of a job search (note to Universe: that last line was for you - Mr. Bon is still attracting job offers - hoping for your help here - in a big, generous way -thank you kindly).

When I woke up this morning and looked toward the other side of the bed, I saw not only my husband of 25 years, but now a man who dares to be "my hair twin."

I had to ask myself:

"Who loves you, baby?"

Week 4 Update

According to the handy treatment calendar I received from the nurse last week, tomorrow is my "Week 4 Treatment."

This is a mostly welcome event.

I welcome each treatment because, of course, they are part of the game-plan that get's me one step closer to getting the"cured" stamp stamped across my ever-fattening medical file. I welcome and respect (odd word choice, I kno, but when you are going toe to toe with a 6'8" bully you better show some respect) the chemotherapy, because it is after all, my friend (with friends like chemo, who needs...) and it is here to help. I welcome the fact that it is Week 4 (already!) and things are moving along at a rapid clip.

I don't welcome the fact that tomorrow will be the infusion of Taxotere and Carboplatin; two substances, er "friends," so vile that one is advised to wash clothing not only separately, but twice, should any bodily fluids end up on your clothes in the 72 hours following the treatment.

I can only imagine what's happening inside my body.

Actually - I'm avoiding that kind of visualization and focusing on positive and restorative healing thoughts; lots of beautiful images floating around in my head these days. Rather, much time is spent dwelling in the gratitude of all the blessings, abundance and delicious meals that have come my way.

So far, positivity is working. Up to this point nothing has been horrific; not a walk in the park mind you, but all very manageable.

The Crafty Side of Chemo

I have a lot to say about the first week of chemotherapy and believe me, I will.
I'll share what I've learned, what I've endured and few humorous moments along the way.
I might even reflect on the interesting changes - physically & emotionally - that are already beginning to take place.

But not right now. Tonight, I'm tired.
I only stopped by, because I missed you - and I have a favor.


Do you have any old Scrabble Tiles you're no longer using?

Seriously.
I've got a craft project I'm itching to do (chemo side-effect I'm sure) and I need a lot of Scrabble Tiles - the wooden kind. You've so been generous already and I hate to ask for this favor, but if you have an old box of Scrabble just taking up space on your shelf, maybe I could help you for a change and take if off you hands.

Got Tiles? Get in Touch.

Update: One Down, Fifty-One to Go

Wednesday? Feels like Tuesday - I think.

Only one week into official treatment for cure and I've already lost a day. Probably shouldn't complain too much; I'm going to lose a lot more over the coming months.

Any who, just wanted to give you a short update on the fascinating world of modern, western medicine as it applies to me.

In a nutshell, Mr. Bon & I arrived at 10:00am sharp Monday for first injections of chemotherapy treatment. Upon arrival, learned that the scheduler had mistakenly scheduled me for unneeded lab-work. We're not needed until 10:3o doctor's appointment to review and chat about upcoming events.
11:00am sharp, the doctor herself comes to the well-appointed lobby to invite us in for consultation. Just as we're entering the exam room - reception calls doctor away for urgent phone call.

More waiting. 11:something, doc comes in tells us many things we've already heard - most of which we understand and can almost recapitulate - and writes out a few more prescriptions that will help to counteract what ever shit is about to rain down on me. Call me a coward, but I began to worry when she mentioned the yeast infection that will surely inhabit my mouth by week's end.

Close to noon, we're sent upstairs to drop off the additional prescriptions (did I mention she'd already sent up orders for 3 others) and then to check-in at treatment center.

Checked in, sat down in another nice lobby and commenced waiting. Nothing like waiting for the unknown and watching others in various stages of their treatment enter the lobby and commence their wait for what they courageously already know what is about to come down.

One look at my full head of hair, told all that I was a newby. Some gave me a sympathetic, heartwarming smile. No one was in much of a mood to chat. I choose to believe that this was due to the drizzly Seattle weather we were experiencing.

Finally, a very kind nurse came to get us. I believe this was around 1:00pm. She showed us to our room - this time we chose a private room with no windows. Next time, we'll take the windows and curtains in lieu of actual walls.

Nurse Jeanne, sat us down & made me comfy with warm blankets and began to explain everything once again. Today's treatment, she reminded us was a 3-med infusion, and because it was the first treatment, all would be on a slow load drip to watch for unacceptable reactions.

Two of the meds have heavy duty side effects, so she loaded me up with a large menu of coping meds: Benadryl, Zofran, Pepcid; you'll have to ask Mr. Bon for the rest of the list because after she gave me the drugs and my sack lunch (next time I'll bring my own - though the apple and cookie were tasty) and I plugged in the movie, I was out like the light.

Sometime around 5, Nurse Jeanne informed us we still had another two hours of infusion time.
What could we say? Obviously, nothing was bothering me and Mr. Bon was engrossed in Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand. Better to go with the process than add to the stress. As if we had a choice.

By 8pm we were back home - getting much needed hugs from the kids and throwing together left overs from the super-fun family barbecue the day before.

Oddly enough, though there was a giant clock in the room staring at us the whole day, time really didn't stand still. In fact, the day seemed to slip right by.

Maybe that's where I lost that day.

Countdown: T-minus 12 hours

Actually, my internal countdown to the commencement of chemotherapy treatment has been going on for a full week.

I've kept it internal - I hope.
Mr. Bon and the kids, might say otherwise when considering my frequent mood swings and compulsions to pack our calendar with good living and of course, lots of house cleaning. Hmmm, wonder why my eldest is spending so much time at the neighbors?

With twelve hours to go, I think it's time to bring a bit of it out into the open. If you are like me - a bit of a voyeur - I'm sure you'd like a peak into what it might be like to be "walking the plank." Ah don't deny it - I know you're out there - I know I'm not the only one watching those reality shows.

Metaphorically speaking, I've use the analogy to space travel to convey the feeling that tomorrow morning when Mr. Bon and I walk into that treatment center, we are entering territory completely unknown. Life will be different. Not just for the next few months - but from here on out.

I didn't have chemo when I last danced with cancer twenty years ago, but I can tell you that experience was life changing. As will (and already is) this experience.

Anyhow, back to my connection with space travel. I imagine when the astronauts leave their training facility to board the van that carries them to the space shuttle that will propel them the hell off this fine planet, their minds are filled with many conflicted thoughts:

Utter pride at the efforts accomplishments that have brought them to this doubtless apex. Utter fear - "dear lord, don't let this be another "Challenger." Sadness - I'm sure they miss their families at the fact that their families can't witness first hand the magic they'll experience. Excitement at finally fulfilling their lifelong dream of going into space.

I'm not going to lie, receiving chemo therapy is not a life long dream.
But, on one hand I am at complete and utter peace with our decision to go forward with it and - truly - excited to begin. Half of my brain has been consumed with it since April 14th; it's time to stop wondering and get the show on the road - 'er launch this rocket.

On the other hand ... long pause, real long pause ... I am scared.

I ask you, what can be fun about drugs that take 6 hours to administer?

Some people report very little in the way of discomfort, while others report just the opposite effects from chemo drugs. I so hope to dwell in the former.

And that's the root of my fear: I'm not good with the unknown.
Notice my modest lifestyle? Not a real risk taker here. It's why I'll never bungee jump, take a peyote trip or sky dive. Certain results too unknown. Too scary in my book.

In the case of my breast cancer diagnosis, the option not to take the chemo drugs is, in the end, an absolute guarantee of unknown results. Proceeding with the chemo gives me certain results: a cure - most certainly.

I'd rather live the next twelve months in some unknown form of discomfort, than live the next ten or twenty years wondering if somethings festering away inside of me.

It's now about T-minus 11 Hours and I'm a little bit closer to boarding that shuttle. Before I go, I want to begin to try and express my gratitude to all of you. I don't think I can ever convey how nice it is in those moments of utter fear to take a deep breath, lean back and feel soooo much love and support. I never know how much love is out there for me (if you're beginning to feel squeamish - I warned you in the header).

Thank you for making this journey so much easier. Without all of you, I'd be curled up in a puddle somewhere.

I want to start with a shout-out to Mr. Bon. If you ever find yourself in a situation like mine, give Jim Namba a call. He did, with out a doubt missed his calling in life; no one could be a better caregiver than good ole' Mr Bon. He is so caring - very few people know just how caring he is. He's an expert at preventing me from over-doing anything, even worrying. He, without out a second thought, has taken over most of the household chores. He knows just how tuck the comforters around me just right when I'm shivering so badly I can't stop. He keeps my muddled brain in line and reminds me when to take my meds or get to an appointment -or work- on time. He doesn't even seem to mind that my conversation level doesn't go beyond that of a gnat. And still, through all this, he tickles me with his sharp wit and comes up with new jokes about the days current events.

My kids are pretty amazing too. Ahhh the Bonlets. Alex is 17. A fine age for a boy. As such his prime activities in life do not revolve around the family; he's more interested in gaming with his friends, looking for a job and he's even considering a getting a driver's license. While he's not hovering over me every second, I do get a lot of hugs. And when I call his name, he's right there for me. He's got his father's caring ways and also a terrific sense of humor with a big, big smile that would melt the heart of any mom.

Miya. She is my hoverer. At 11, she is about to embark on her own journey - in September she'll be entering middle school. I don't have to tell you all that that entails. She'll be fine. One bit of silver lining to this diagnosis is that I'm on a very much reduced work schedule and am home more and get to spend more time with her. Nice. I can't tell you what a wonderful caregiver she is. She has a knack for balancing being a kid and being a world class nurse. She keeps me hydrated, helps me monitor my med needs, and, I dare you to find a more loving child.

I'm also grateful for the support of my sisters and brother and mother. Not to mention my nieces and nephews, and my in laws. Their gifts have been many and unending. I only hope that if ever needed, I will so gracefully and generously reciprocate.

I am particularly grateful for my job, my excellent bosses and all the people I work with. Ours is a small, (20 employees) locally owned company. Since this diagnosis came down, I have spent more time away from work than at work. My boss has been very clear that the goal is to get cured, no matter what that takes - even a wacky schedule. My position, in the past, has been somewhat pivotal to the the day to day operations of running the company. Jobs descriptions have been altered and sacrifices have been made all so I can embark on this journey worry free.
My boss has also been very clear about the security of my position - amazing.

A word about gifts of food. Family and friends have been amazing. Would you believe that for 3 weeks after my first surgery, we never once had to cook a dinner. Amazing. Happily, we are blessed with foodies in our midst. We've been treated to enchiladas, Greek chicken, paella, homemade mac & cheese, two types of lasagna, chicken marbella with the best-ever oven roasted broccoli, souvlaki, lots of pies - including if you can believe it - a Dahlia Lounge Coconut Cream Pie. I'm not gonna lie - I shamelessly requested that one! I know there is more, but in this late hour I'm forgetting a few.

Cards. Nothing like going out to the mailbox and finding a greeting card mixed in with all the correspondence from the various labs & hospitals. I keep a basket of each of the cards I receive from friends, family co-workers and vendors; when I'm feeling a little down, I look through them and breath in the support. I'd especially like to thank Pam & Jim in Davis for your card. I was so surprised and touched ... thank you for thinking of me - and for reading this blog!

When I was first diagnosed, I was so filled with worry about how we could make this all work out. I wondered how my children and husband would fare, my job security ( I am the only employed one right now - anybody out there hiring top-notch guys), life with one breast, the sure to be astounding costs, the courage needed and so much more.

Over a delightful, though somewhat teary, cup of coffee in those first days, my sister told me and this a direct quote "people will come out of the woodwork." As always, the wise one was right.

That very day, I received my first card in the mail. It was the beginning of so many gifts - so many humble reminders of how lucky I am.

So in these waning hours of feeling normal - I can peer through the cloud cover and can see a few stars (a gift in itself), and am once again reminded of how lucky I am. Though I'm embarking into what is for me (and us) unknown territory - I am at peace. Much like the astronauts, I have so much support, technical and otherwise, that I can safely put my worries aside and focus on my work at hand -healing.

T-minus 10 hours.

Ad Links? Please Advise.

Hey.
Who put those ad-links on my blog?

I know I didn't put them there.

Or did I?

Know how to get rid of them? Please advise by leaving a comment.

Unless of course, I'm getting paid for those links. If that's the case I don't mind them too much. Kind of cute aren't they?

Hmmm... maybe the money can be directly funneled to my good friends at the Swedish Cancer Institute. Or, better yet, The Bon Family's 'Post-Cancer Mega-Vacation' fund.

Seriously, what fine print didn't I read this time? Do advise all you smart bloggers out there.

My Life on the A-List

Disclaimer: Say what you will, but I very much enjoy Kathy Griffin and her show, My Life on the D-List. I've borrowed the title for my post only because I was reminded of my own life on the D-list yesterday afternoon at my first physical therapy appointment.

Before I begin, if you should be compelled to classify my social status, please just quietly note that I hover somewhere between the B- and C-lists, with an occasional, usually food-related, foray into D-list territory. Oh sure, I know a thing or two about A-list life and do, from time to time, enjoy the finer things; but truth is, most of the time I languish further down the alphabet.

While going over my health history with the Medical Physiologist yesterday I realized that, at least where cancer is concerned, I'm living a top-drawer, A-list, champagne and roses life. All because of my amazing oncology team.

Let me explain. Have you ever the been guest of someone you don't really know all that well? Even so, you agree to hang out with her (or him if you prefer) because she's fun to kick it with and well, the invitation to go to say, Maui (in my case, Seattle) is just to good to pass up? An hey, who doesn't love an all-expense-paid (in my case, not so much) vacation?

When you arrive in Maui though, it turns out your friend is all tied up with appointments and meetings - so you're on your own for those spa appointments, guided hikes to the volcano fields, and deep jungle water falls; not to mention that you'll be spending more than a few meals dining solo.

But, and here's the cool thing, every time an esthetician, a field guide or a server finds out that you are with so and so, the service factor goes up - way up. I mean after all, if you're with him, well you must be someone special too.

"Oh, you're with Barrack? Let me exchange that Korbet for the Dom."

Very A-list.

Transfer all that to Pill Hill in Seattle, where I'm spending several hours a week traipsing around the various hospitals and medical centers that populate one of Seattle's oldest neighborhoods and earning it it's endearing nickname. Instead of chatting up spa employees and field guides though, I'm hanging out with nurses, phlebotomists, medical techs, doctors and more medical receptionists than I could begin to count.

Standard procedure in each and every appointment is to ascertain my name, date of birth, age (actually yes, they ask my age right after my dob. seriously) primary care doc and my surgeon. Every time. Even if I just gave all that info to your receptionist twenty minutes ago.

I noticed early on that people would subtly raise their eyebrow's when I uttered the name of my primary care doc. Ever so subtle. But it was there. In the case of my surgeon the looks were more noticeable.

"Your surgeon, Mrs. Namba?"

"Patti -D*"

And there it is: back straightens, nose tips slightly down, head turns just a bit to the right, eyebrows go up and eyes open wide and peer over glasses.

"Really?" Then under their breath. "Hm."
"Can I get you anything - water perhaps?"

OK, that last line is a bit of an exaggeration, but not much. Every time I mention her name I have a new best friend. A most impressive experience was right before my mastectomy. The nurse whom I'll never see again had gone through the litany of questions, implanted the IV, given me a nice little pat and wished me well. But just before taking her absence, she paused and asked:

"How did you ever get Doctor D for your surgeon? She's the best you know." Telling, not asking.
"Your in very good hands."

No, I didn't know, but I'm beginning to get the idea.

On and on it goes over The Hill, everybody gushes about my surgeon, oncologist and primary doc.

Yesterday was no different. Doctor Z, renowned in his own right, couldn't stop the gush. Though he's worked with all three women before, it seems it's the first time he's had all three of them on one patient and he's very honored to part of this "amazing assembly of talent." Nope, not making this up either.

"It's very fortuitous that you are here in this place, with these people, at this time." This to a cancer patient!

What else can I say? I've got a Dream-Team of Docs.

What else would one expect when you're on the A-list? Watch out Mr. Bon, a girl could get used this end of the alphabet!

~~~
(*Name changed to protect her privacy)

Kickin' Cancer's Butt - The Update

Hello-Hello!

Much has passed since I last visited you here at the bon blog.

Many novels have been read, many, many,many wonderful meals have been prepared for us and much enjoyed by us, many gifts and cards have come to our doorstep and mailbox and many friends have come to visit.

On the medical side, many scalpels, needles, radio-active isotopes, grenade-sized drains and all manner of sci-fi have passed through my body in the last 6 weeks. Gone is my left breast (surgery 1 on 5/17), gone are a bunch of nodes from my left armpit (surgery 2, 3 weeks later) and gone is the cancer (no kidding - more on that in a minute).

Within the breast removed, the pathology revealed one bigger mass (visualize a marble, maybe the shooter) one smaller mass (think of a pea here) and a few suspicious shadows. Of the three nodes that were also removed at that surgery, 2 were perfectly clear but one contained a micro-static metastasis (insert heavy sigh here). Knowing cancer to be a fierce opponent, the doc recommended going back to the O.R. and removing a few more nodes and having a look at those.

Even though it's a very common procedure under these circumstances, go right ahead and insert another heavy sigh here. I know mr. bon and I did. Then we said "go ahead doc, do what ya' gotta do to make it all go away."

Second surgery occurred 3 weeks to the date after the first surgery. Really. Just as I was beginning to feel like myself again, I got to go in for another round. But, as I may have mentioned, I too am a fierce opponent with a far fiercer team, so off I went to the land of magical naps for an axillary lymph node dissection; mr bon and sister by my side, dutiful daughter/nurse at the ready to spoon feed me sliced bananas and keep my water pitcher filled to the brim upon my return home.

As the first, this surgery went very well - though the pain factor was much higher and required more management - still not really all that debilitating.

By the end of the week, the doc called with the good news - no cancer in those nodes!

Upon hearing this news, It was my mom who immediately drew the wise conclusion and proclaimed that I was cancer free. When I asked the surgeon about this at the follow-up few days later she confirmed "you have no measurable cancer in your body."

Yay!

But -

Cancer is ... you know ... fierce.
So we must keep fighting to insure the cure.

Enter round 2: Chemotherapy.

Before you go gettin' all "damn" and "poor bon" and really down on chemotherapy - remember it is our friend, even, our team member- it is what will make me a survivor.

So bring it on.

And bring it they will. For 12 months, I'll be receiving a weekly dose of Herceptor - a relatively easy drug to take with little or no side effects. Additionally, for the first 4 months, I'll be receiving 2 other meds whose names escape me at the moment. Their effects will be noticeable, as in start shopping for doo-rags now and plan for serious sofa-time a few days after each dose. Luckily, those tough guys are given at 3 week intervals, rather than weekly.

I've been told time and time again by docs, nurses, and patients that the most common and felt side affect will be fatigue. We can manage fatigue - we got this!

You're wondering when the gong will sound for round 2?

Well, that's the best news of all.
Not until July 12th. By my calculations, that's about 3 weeks from now - 3 glorious weeks living cancer-free. But even more importantly, and here is the news that some of you have really been waiting for --- that is 3 days after my nephew's wedding!

Double Yay!

Long Walk Part of Cure

Mr. Bon and I met with the surgeon today.

In some ways it was a non-event.

Kind of like going to the grocery store without a shopping list.

Sometimes, although you know you're going to the market to get groceries, you don't know exactly what you'll be putting in your cupboards when you get home. True, there's a good chance you'll pull food stuffs out of the bag, but you might also get surprised and find a magazine, or I don't know, say a bottle of wine . Sure it is great to have the groceries (and the treats), but it's really nothing to write home about.

In hindsight, I suppose I could have predicted that our visit with the doctor would be as predictable as that sack of groceries and only reveal much of what we already knew: a) I have breast cancer and b) I must have said cancer surgically removed.

Somehow I expected more. Just a little bit of happy, you know? Like the Fran's Almond bar that will, from time to time, mysteriously appear in the bottom of my grocery tote.

Though she had no bad news, the doc had no candy bars, bottles of wine or even a pony.

The facts remain the same as I learned in the phone call with her last Friday: all diagnostics came back with conclusive evidence that the cancer is isolated to the left breast. For certain, there is one smallish mass (apparently we don't say tumor any more) and two suspicious, even smaller, shadows. Not an awful case, but enough of the bad stuff to require a full mastectomy.

"With the diagnostic results being so positive, do you think I'll need chemo?"

Just asking.
Doing my part to provide her the opportunity to whip out that pretty little pony, is all.

"Well. We can't determine your treatment plan until we get the pathology report from the nodes we'll remove in surgery."

Not bad news really, but not exactly good news either. Certainly not definitive and definitely not compelling blog fodder. Just more waiting.

More patience required.

More long walk on path. Or maybe it's: more walk on long path.

The point is, I don't know for sure.

What I do know is come this Monday around 1:30 on the main campus of Seattle's oldest hospital, I'll be going head to head with cancer and getting my titty whacked.

See that cancer? I can laugh about it. And guess what else cancer? I'm ready, more than ready to take you down and put you out.

Woot!

Good News.
Lead doc called today and here is what she had to say:

Bone Scan: Clear!
PET/CT: Clear!
Left Breast MRI : Just the mass we knew existed.
Right Breast MRI-guided needle biopsy: Clear!

A huge sigh of relief throughout the land of Bon. Whooshhh.

Says I: "So we can call it Early Stage Breast Cancer?"
Says Her: "Yes - early stage breast cancer."
Says I: " I can totally beat a stage 1 or 2"
Says Her: "Yes you can."

Score one for the Bon's!!!!

Despite this wonderful news, the treatment plan will still be aggressive due to the fact that this is my second bout with cancer and the fact that they radiated the heck out of me last time (which is unquestionably the reason I have breast cancer now - but we won't dwell on that).

Mr B. and I meet next Thursday with the Doc for a pre-op consultation and to firm up the plans for treatment.

Until then, I'm going to live like I don't have cancer and fill my world with joy and beauty, laughter and love, and of course, good food and good wine.

I hope you will do the same.

Cheers!
~Bon

G R A T I T U D E

This won't be my last post on this subject, but I'm feeling rather grateful this morning and just have to express my gratitude.

The sun has just made its way over the Cascade mountains to the east of us; its rays are beaming through our windows and flooding our bedroom with its glory. A welcome site on any morning, but particularly so after such a cold and cloudy, albeit typical, Seattle Springtime.

Let the gratitude commence:

To the wonderful Doctor who insisted I take the day off today. Thank you. I didn't realize I needed a day off. Also, thanks to you and your team for your swift and caring work yesterday.

To my boss who didn't blink and eye when I delivered the doctor's orders to him.

To my nephew who hooked me up with this awesome laptop. Can you say "Blogging in Bed?" Yay! Thank you. And uhhh ... watch out fellow Twitterites, I have a lot more time on my hands and a bitchin' machine on which to tweet away.

I am grateful for my friends and for my family. Every time I feel a little overwhelmed, I just lean back into a free-fall and there you are to catch me; just like in those team building exercises. Not only that, you never seem to mind that one moment I'm laughing and the next I'm mopping up tears. Thank you making cancer so much easier.

Building Character

Did you read my last post?
Did you notice how I was all brave and courageous and strong at the MRI yesterday?
Did ya' see how I was all like "in your face cancer?"

Guess what I get for all my bravery and courage? A return visit.
No kidding. A very kind scheduler called and invited me back in for another go.

Isn't that nice?

And so I won't get bored with the same old-same old, tomorrow, they're going to add a twist and perform a biopsy whilst running the MR. To be more precise, the MRI is going to guide the doctor to the mass in my right breast so that she can safely take a tissue sample or two. Yes, I said RIGHT breast.

For those of you just tuning in, the cancer is in my LEFT breast.


I've got my work cut out for me tonight as I fall asleep.

I guess no one told cancer that I intend to stay upbeat and positive throughout this journey. Throw me all the curve balls you want; I'm keeping my eyes on the prize - and -that light at the end of the tunnel. Unlike you cancer, I'll still be in my body a few months from now.

I fill my world with joy and beauty and all is well.

Em Are I - Killed it!

You know what's worse than finding out you have cancer?

I'll tell you - all the bloody diagnostic tests to determine what stage of cancer you're dealing with.

Mr. Bon and I hadn't even begun to wrap our heads around our new reality, when the surgeon began ticking off the list of diagnostics she would require before the inevitable removal of my cancerous breast.

She mentioned something about the necessity of determining whether or not the carcinoma in question has invaded other sites in my body; though Mr. B and I can barely recall her gentle words and thorough explanations.

It wasn't until we got home that I counted the list of appointments: four in total. Four dates in which I would be poked, prodded and injected with some sort of you've-got-to-be-kidding-me-you're-putting-that-in-my-bloodstream?-substance.

As mind-numbing as a cancer diagnosis is, for me it's those dreaded, but admittedly miraculous,
tests that put me over the edge. I know-I know, they're useful and even critical to my healing process - but they scare the daylights out of me.

Today.
Today was test number three, or officially, Breast MRI. I could only think of it as what it was: my third trip into a mysterious tube with the added bonus, wait for it ... contrast dye via an IV injection, in less than two weeks. No friends, I did not sleep well last night. As my mind is wont to do in these situations, I spent a fair amount of time in the wee hours of the morning dwelling in the deep, dark, depths of my mind. Not such a good place to hang out when the lights are out and the rest of your family is in a deep and peaceful slumber.

Fear not friends, this story has a happy outcome.

Patients who are claustrophobic, or think they might freak out in the tube, are offered a sedative to get through the test with a minimum of discomfort. Given my current anxiety levels, I thought a little "cocktail" wasn't a bad idea, so I signed up.

Funny thing happened to me on the way to the Imaging Center though.
Somehow, I tapped in to a deep - so deep it was unbeknownst - reservoir containing courage and strength (yay! I have courage and strength; could be useful in the future).

As the appointment approached I realized a mind altering drug induced more fear than a confining, noisy machine. I was going to have to get through this chemically unaided. And ya' know what? I did it. Actually, I killed it!

Employing grounding techniques learned from my Reiki master, yogic breathing and positive affirmations gleaned from various books found in the "woo-woo" aisle of Barnes & Noble, I made it through the MRI with no anxiety what-so-ever. In fact, I found it kind of relaxing.

Remember that feeling when you finished your last final of the quarter?
Remember that overwhelming (in a good way) feeling of relief and liberation, knowing you could claim back your life and do what you please with your time? That is where I'm at tonight. It's not quite a Summer break for me, but something shorter; we'll call it a Spring Break.

A few luxurious, worry-free days in which the C-word shan't be mentioned.

Postscript: Kudos to Mr. Bon who sat vigilantly near MRI system, giving me great comfort with his presence.

This Path

I am on a new path.
You should know this, as it is likely I'll be seeking solace here in the coming months.

Just two weeks ago, I was on another path; a completely different path.
And then, in the course of a two-minute phone call, everything changed.

Two weeks.
That's how long I've been trying to tell you. I've layed awake at night formulating the words over and over. Trying so very hard to come off as a good, compelling writer. So many different versions, so many opening lines - but none of them seemed clever enough.

I wanted to tell you in just the right way.
I wanted to be eloquent.
I wanted to stop you in your tracks; because that's what happened to me.
I wanted to be a headlights-to-your-deer kind of writer; because that's what happened to me.

But really, there is no clever way to tell you.

And as it happens, this path moves rather swiftly.
The way I looked at this path two weeks ago is completely different than my view today. Some things are already a blur; events I'll never be able to re-capture - let alone in words.

So it's time.
Time to say the words.
Time to get comfortable with the words - and the view.

I, Bon, have breast cancer.

For Blue

Traffic will be bad in Seattle this morning.

One thousand (maybe more) police and emergency vehicles will participate in a procession from the University of Washington in the northeast sector of the city all the way to the Space Needle in the "center" of the city. Really, it's not that far. In fact, the line of vehicles may take up the entire route without even moving.

I mean it, traffic will be a mess. And that is just fine with me.

The procession is to honor and memorialize a Seattle police officer who was ambushed and shot to death while he sat in his patrol unit training a rookie.

Not cool.

This cold blooded murder has left a family with out a husband and a father. Also, not cool.

It has put fear and ill ease in the very people who protect us. Not to mention their loved ones.
Would you be able to sleep at night if your wife, husband, son or daughter was a cop?

So yes, my heart is heavy for the fallen officer's family, but I also hold a silent vigil for those that are still on the street. -still just a phone call away when we need urgent help.

I imagine these are tough times. Thank you for your service today and your continued strength in the weeks and months that follow.

Who Can Say?

For the first time in a long time, I feel happy.
Truly happy. And I can't put my finger on exactly why that is.




Maybe ... it's the sunny weather here in Venice Beach, from where I'm writing.

Maybe ... it's my brother-in-law's* delightful laugh.

Maybe ... it's the fact that my mom* is back in her own, freshly renovated home and a lot of hard work is behind us.

Maybe ... it's because my husband* is, finally, back on the road to gainful employment.

Maybe ... it's the residue of spending the afternoon in a neighborhood completely devoted to three of my favorite things: arts, coffee and food.

Maybe ... it was spending a lot of time with the healing crystals in a bookstore called "Mystic Journey."

Maybe ... it's just that sometimes you realize that all in all, you are okay just the way you are.

Or maybe, and this is probably it, it's that excellent (though now empty) bottle of Riesling produced by the good vintners at St. Michelle using what appears to be a terrific '08 harvest, sitting over there on the counter. Never, in my wildest dreams would I ever expected to recommend a bottle from St. Michelle.

Whatever the reason, even though I have a lot of asterisks in my life, today I feel good and I'm celebrating with a post.
~bon
*Life has changed friends- more on this later

What is This Handbasket and Why am I so Hot?

Strange day in Seattle.

Major, big-time major, bank fails.

Homeless Seattlites are evicted from "Nickelsville," while million-dollar helicopters hover overhead catching it all on film for the evening news.

And nearby, the Boeing Machinists picket their employer while burning wood fires in old oil barrels, while said employer loses a reported $100 million a day.

Is this September 26th of 2008? Or did I accidentally discover
time-travel?

What's the Word, Bird?

"I've got a hunger,

twisting my stomach into knots..."

Every once in a while, you stumble upon a song and find the lyric so eloquent you wish like hell you would have written the poem that became that song. Sometimes, the song resonates so strongly it gets stuck in your head, your psyche and your throat. It becomes the backdrop of your life. At times, it takes over your thinking.

I've had just such a song stuck in my head for weeks now. Oh yes, weeks. Possibly even months; I can't be sure though - for, where this song is concerned, I've lost all track of time. It's in my head when I wake up. It's there humming softly as I make my daughter's lunch. It's there when I drive to work - and at work, shuffling fabric, folding invoices. Cooking dinner? It's there- spinning on some sort of maniacal loop, playing its soft, sweet, haunting self over and over.

Though my efforts have been mighty, I haven't been able to shake this song. No amount of soulful serenades or rocking baselines can exorcise this number.

This song's presence is so constant, maddeningly-so I might add, that I've come to realize it's there for a reason. I am supposed to stop and just listen to it. There is a message I'm supposed to be gleaning. The Universe is trying to tell me something. But What? What. What is the word? Speak up Universe.

Furthermore, I'm not really sure I'm comfortable getting a message from this particular song. Though beautiful, it's one bleak little ditty. Have a look for yourself:

I've got a hunger,
Twisting my stomach into knots
That my tongue has tied off

My brain's repeating
"if you've got an impulse let it out"
But they never make it past my mouth.

Bop Ba, this is the sound of settling

Our youth is fleeting
Old age is just around the bend
And I can't wait to go gray

I'll sit and wonder
Of every love that could've been
If I'd only thought of something charming to say.

Bop Ba, This is the sound of settling.

Who knew the Universe would speak to me through those Death Cab for Cutie cuties?
I feel so special. But hey, what exactly is the message? Why won't this song leave my head? I like the song alright, but I don't want it taking up permanent residence. It reminds me of a day like today; a sunless, autumn day. It makes me feel empty inside; hungry, if you will.
What's worse, if I chose to dwell on it, I could find truth in every line of that lyric. But in a long-ago lifetime- not now, not here. Meanwhile, my stomach is twisting into knots!

So Universe. What are you saying? Are you handing me a proclamation, or just issuing a gentle word of caution. Does this have something to do with my current career situation? Do tell. Whatever it is you're trying to say is lost on me. I need a clearer message. I'm not too bright, ya know.

Kudos (I think)to Death Cab for Cutie for putting this song on their 2003 album Transatlanticism. Want to get The Sound of Settling stuck in your head too? Click on this spot, right here.

Revealing My Inner Sexist

My reaction to John McCain's choice of Sarah Palin as his running mate says a lot more about me than I ever cared to admit publicly - until now.

Deep inside, I subscribe to the June Cleaver model of parenting. While I don't care to wear pearls and A-line skirts, I do believe that serving one's children and husband is the priority. There are certain homemaking (remember that word) chores that, I do believe, should be a top priority in the home of every American family.

I believe that somebody has got to get three square meals on the table everyday. And, at one of those meals, the family should sit down together and talk.

I believe that somebody has to do the grocery shopping on a regular basis so that the cupboards and refrigerator always have something to offer.

I believe that somebody has got to get the laundry done and maintain the appearance of dresser drawers that are, as if by magic, always full.

I believe that somebody has to keep the house clean, organized and running smoothly.

I believe our children require these basic needs in place so that they may grow up happy, healthy and, above all, grounded.

This I believe, but can't quite uphold.

The reality at the house of Bon, and most homes across America, is that both parents must work to pay for said house, home or condo. Sadly too is the reality that, maintaining my inner June Cleaver is impossible while working full time. Mind you, Mr. Bon is no slouch when it comes to helping around the house, but more often than not, we choose hands-on time with the Bonlets over household management.

I'm mostly coping with the cognitive dissonance I'm living.
I'm working on achieving a greater balance of work and home that serves our family better. Though it's a little early to tell, the Bonlets do seem to be fairing pretty well despite my lack of home baked cookies in the cookie jar every afternoon when they come home from school.

I find managing the lives of two children, running a house and managing a small business - although very gratifying - extremely time consuming. So much so that I can't find the time to grab a cup of coffee with a friend. How does Sarah Palin expect to raise her children and help run the country?

She has five children. Five children. They range in age from what, nineteen to two. One's heading to Iraq soon, one's about to become a teen mother, one's a hockey player and one has Downs Syndrome. Sheesh. I thought my plate was full. Is she really at a point in her career where she should even be entertaining the thought of moving her family to Washington, DC and accepting the position of Vice President?
I don't want someone a "heartbeat away from the presidency" who has so much on her personal plate.

I'm not saying that a woman's place is in the home - well actually, I am.
But I do so recognizing that everybody gets to make their own choice. And for some women, it is better not to be at home. I get that. I also get that sometimes, most especially when you've brought a slew of children into the world, you don't necessarily get to do what you want to do. Sometimes, your career has to wait - or at least operate in low gear for awhile.

In the case of the Palin family I believe the thinking is misaligned, the decisions are unwise and a prime example of parenting that isn't, couldn't possibly be, focused on the family.

Maybe I've overlooked something. Maybe... Mr. Palin is the Mack-Daddy of parenting. Maybe... he doesn't need her help with the brood. But of course, how could we know? Mrs. Palin, in her typical fashion, has squelched this man's voice.